


Prudence and the Leeds Devil

by nandroidtales



Category: Emmy The Robot (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandroidtales/pseuds/nandroidtales
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The riders hauled Jeduthan and, to their growing distaste, that Quaker’s infernal contraption onto their horses- he’d know what to do with it. Galloping away through the worsening snowstorm they stowed the two in the chapel, fiercely trying to rouse the frostbitten senior. Stoking the placid embers in the fire to a roar they rubbed and shook him, his eyes blinking awake.   
“Life! Praise God,” one of the men shouted.   
“Get him up now, and away with his wetted clothing,” an older one shouted. This wasn’t his first rodeo in the snows of New England- time was crucial. Stripped to what dry clothing was left Jeduthan was finally lucid, if shivering wildly. Shivering was good, they reminded him, motion was good.   
“Mister Jeduthan,” the youngest asked, pointing to the stony corner of the room, “what should we do with that wooden hellspawn?” He spat on the ground even looking at it.  
“Nothing,” Jeduthan hacked, “nothing!” He panted, exhausted and ill, waving them away with his hands.   
“Mister Jeduthan, but-”  
“I said *nothing*!” He doubled over into an intense fit of coughing, ropes of bloody phlegm flitting onto the warped wooden floor. “That thing saved me, damn you!”  
“He’s lapsed away again,” whispered the other, “he’s imagining things. He must be near.” A bony hand lurched for that man’s collar, pulling him close. The snotty, running face stared into his eyes, mouth worming around for the words he wanted to shove down the other’s throat, to make him see. Grumbling, accepting the futility of it, he cast him away.  
“See to it that the machine is taken care of. Should I die, I want you,” he pointed at the youthful, blonde man, “to be her guardian. She’s done more for us than I’ve time to say.”  
The young man nodded, unsure, but unwilling to reject a direct order from Jeduthan; he’d been the man who oversaw his and his friends’ baptism, their education, their whole childhood. Nodding again he scooped up the robot and left for his home in the blistering whiteout, explaining frantically to his father the gravity of Jeduthan’s illness and his commands. Laying the jumbled mess of limbs and splintered wood down in his meager room, he knelt beside his bed to pray for the sick soul of Jeduthan, and for deliverance from the dead automaton staring at him from across the room. 

Days passed to the end of the week, Sunday. Jeduthan was in his death throes, cursing the world and the impotent village-folk who tended to him in his deepening mania. He cried of beasts in the coniferous wastelands that surrounded them, the hellish spawns of Satan creeping around the forests. They were lambs without a shepherd, he told them between pneumonic fits of coughing, pleading for them to protect the thinking machine with all their lives. He summoned for the young man he’d taken for this task, pulling him in with clammy, anemic hands.  
“Child,” he mumbled, hoarse, “I’ve chosen you alone for this. You’re young, there’s time. Fix the machine, please, I implore you with the last of my spirit.” The boy was disgusted by the old man, dragging the town down in his deathbed insanity, commanding things unimaginable of him or any other of the townsfolk. It was Jeduthan who railed against the degeneracy of the Quakers at mass, yet harbored one in the town. He wanted to draw his hand out of the moist, freezing vise that gripped him, but he couldn’t.  
“Father, you’re ill,” he spat. “You’re not speaking sense, you old bast-”  
“Be glad this room is empty, boy,” he groaned, rising up in his bed. The color returned to his cheeks, his hands felt hot again against the boy’s own, his cheeks were full and his face alive like in his youth. His chest heaved, clean and pure, face free of mucus and spittle. “Hear me now- protect that poor machine, do what you must to make her work. So help me God if you don’t do what I say, I will walk this Earth again and haunt your every waking moment.” And with that, he was gone.

Years passed now, a generation grew up and the hamlet expanded. There was a new road, the throb of trade more lively in the coming years. The boy had grown to respectable manhood with a wife of his own and an ever-expanding family. For fear of death he’d taken the pains to defend the wooden construct from the odd vandal, gently clearing out the splinters of wood from her inside, going so far as to order for new plating from distant artisans. The robot was in decent shape, he proudly observed, pristinely repaired and clothing mended. He had her sat in a chair by the window in his home, waiting and lifeless- at times she’d scare passersby, but nothing stirred her to life. He tried winding her one night after several years, only to recoil at the inhuman grinding of gears, the tinny snap of lost wires. A fallen weight rattled in her wooden torso.  
And then, one day some forty years later, a young businessman, printer and, to the middle-aged man’s surprise, inventor happened along. He’d been on business in Boston and decided to explore the ‘local flavour’, peeping around the grim locale of the previous generation’s witch hunt. Staying the night in the isolated hamlet he took shelter with the aging man, spinning him grand tales of the great city of Philadelphia and his work there. As he started to mention his scientific pursuits, though, he at once captured the interest of the aged Puritan. Rising from his seat wordlessly he went for the robot, pulling the dense wood-brass cadaver to the table they shared.  
“So, friend,” he huffed. “Have you any knowledge of… such things?” He waved his hands in the air.   
“I do, I do! I’ve tried in vain to make something such as this, but- Are you the maker?”  
“No, he’s… since passed,” the man returned, sullen.   
“A shame, a shame… Say, sir, could I interest you in a deal, perhaps? I think,” he continued, inspecting the machine, “I really think I could have her working again. What do you say to ten shillings?” His eyes widened at the generous offering. It would be unchristian to take the money, to dispense of his responsibility after so much time spent languishing in his home- but that was just it, sitting unattended and untouched she wasn’t going anywhere. A youthful spark jumped in the young man’s eyes, narrow spectacles just barely containing the exuberance behind them as he played with her limbs, studied the cogwork beneath her panelling, the peeling rosy-red paint of her cheeks. This man could offer her, or it, or whatever it was to him more than a life spent leaning against the window.  
“Take her, no charge.”  
“Sir, surely-”  
“I’m sure. But please,” he sighed, “get her working. Not just for my sake.” The young man took his hand and shook it furiously, teetering too close on the border of an unceremonious hug.  
“I will, friend, I promise you that! I’ll have her sent home to you posthaste, I assure you.” The idea of her coming “home” had never occurred to him, only the idea of getting rid of her. Looking over the lifeless construct lying on his table he felt a twang of regret that he’d never tried to offer her what the eager gentleman was so enthused to.  
“There’s no need for that, but- but take care of her.” He couldn’t explain the coming grief of parting with her, whether it was a fondness for her place at the window or how she spooked those passing it, he wanted to rescind his offer. It was too late for that now, he knew, slapping the delicate brass box he’d kept on the shelf into the young man’s hands. “You’ll be needing this too.”  
“Oh, excellent, thank you,” he beamed, already tinkering with her open chest. Come the morning he carted the robot away, slumped over like a sleeping child in the passenger seat of his carriage. Watching the pair disappear over the horizon the man doubled over in relief, glad no glowing apparition rose from the ground or his fireplace to torment him. He wished her the best, hoping she’d find some better peace upon waking in Philadelphia.


	2. Chapter 2

That new road that had breathed so much life into the dismal little hamlet wasn’t exactly the finest. Rough, brutal cobblestones bounced the man on his rear every few yards, an irritating ache running up his spine with each successive jump. Shaking it off he worried for the narrow little person at his right, each bump nearly throwing her from the carriage or jostling some as-yet-unknown component irreparably. Yanking his horse to a halt he secured his charge with a loop of rope, her limp body properly secured. Humping it down the road towards Pennsylvania, back sorer by the minute, he prayed she was still in some shape to be repaired.  
A few days more and he returned ragged and sore, but in one piece, to Philadelphia, to home. The city steamed and fumed with activity and liveliness, a far cry from the humble, shivering towns northward. Boston was certainly a nice visit but not a place to settle down he mused, the climate would never agree with him. Home was here, home was the broad avenues and grassy commons about the city, the sparse scaffolding where the new state house was being built. He’d like to see it done some day, to see his papers and books piled high at some well-lit desk of authority. But that was the future, far off and obscure. For today he had to worry about the delicate machine lying asleep next to him, and the increasing frequency of stares she was attracting. Down an alleyway and away into some warm corner of the city he made way for his humble printshop, a fittingly small chain of rooms sitting atop the store. Dismounting triumphantly he carried the miserable construct over his shoulder, the odd apprentice carrying the rest in after him.   
“Is there anything else Master Franklin?” Half turning the young man smiled, grinning at one of his aides.  
“No, Thomas, I don’t believe so. Ah, wait! Any word from Mister Leeds on his almanac?”  
“No, sir, sorry.”  
“No trouble, no trouble- we can hold the Poor Richard’s for a spell. In the meantime though,” he gestured at the load over his back, “I will be busy. You’re in command Thomas.”  
“Understood sir!” The gentleman retreated upstairs to his personal dwelling and study, slipping past his messy bedroom and into his personal workshop. In the space was the gentle hum of clockwork ticking down amid the scattered, scintillating brass plates and hunks he worked with. Clearing a space with his free arm he laid the lady down, a rattling inside spooking him. It was likely a futile effort, he lamented, but by God he would try to resurrect her. Gently he stripped her of her still-chilly clothing, years of idle sleep leaving them as untouched as the day they were torn.  
“Must’ve been a bear that got her,” the man sniffed. Shoving his spectacles back up his nose he splayed the nude, wooden form apart, analyzing each fragile detail of her aged panelling. Running her limbs in his hands he observed the perfect, soundless run of her joints, mute save for the sickening rattle of her injured mechanisms. Looking her up and down he spied the checkerboard patterning of her old and new panelling, the grim contrast of original and refurbished plating revealing the extent of the damage. Her chestplate popped off, he could finally examine the damage in full, fingers worming around for purchase and structure. The realization came, seeing the splinters of wood wedged between cogs and the animalistic tear through her bellows, that no bear did this. Should she wake up there’d be questions aplenty, an increasingly scant reality as his fingers flipped dislocated gears over each other and were cut by un-sprung wires.   
Sighing, he rose from his place sitting beside her, ambling around the workshop for some spark of inspiration, some hint of direction amid the messy brass gore spilling out onto the workbench. Staring back at the glimmering mess he pieced together a list of tasks to guess at, settling down to a side bench to work new springs together while he thought. There was the matter of realigning the gears inside, another matter of guesswork without her creator or a schematic to work with, the replacing of the narrow struts holding her torso together, and the grim and daunting matter of what lay in her head. Finished with his spring making, satisfied with the pull and jump of them, he returned to the robot. The Sun had disappeared hours ago, whimpering candlelight the only thing guiding his hands in again. It was an easy enough task, plucking out the stray, snapped wires. Deftly knocking some hooks in place he spanned her new springs across the short gap, raring to stretch and pull soon enough. Dusting his hands off he retreated to bed for the night, the arduous task of correcting the jumble of gears and levers inside waiting for tomorrow. 

Morning again he strolled through the printshop first, the inky remnants of last night’s shift neatly organized and prepared for the day. Thomas would be here soon to open up, the young boy eagerly jamming the key into the door and whipping the shop into a more perfect order. Retreating back to his home upstairs, past the bed and study, he threw open the workshop doors. Breathing deep he was filled with the gnawing spirit of invention, fingers wiggling in excitement to return to work at the automaton’s side. He slid over to one of his simpler machines, a winding key awaking a twittering bird that hopped in circles on the windowsill. Glasses straightened again, he called out a composer’s name and piece, the bird shifting with a heavy grinding to a more melodious tune. Twinkling music filled the room as he stood over her open chest cavity, a gruesome mess of gears tumbling outward.  
“Right... To work, I suppose,” he mumbled. The tangled wheels inside befuddled him utterly, the last night spent plucking the loose ones away doing little to ease his confusion. Now the mess inside was neater, yet still just as enigmatic.   
“Let’s try… this?” He tugged gently at one of the spring’s he’d replaced, pulling it up its furrow towards a small lock. Snapped into place it sat, taught and trembling, waiting for release. He plumbed a finger in to test the tension as it flew down again, smashing on his fingertip with a snap. He ripped his hand back, waving the throbbing finger in the air as he hollered aloud, the gentle tinkling notes drowned in his fury.  
“Are you alright Master Franklin,” a young voice yelled up.  
“Fine, Thomas! Fine!” The man whipped his hand to and fro, blowing and wincing. “This better be worth it…” Diving back in he gently pulled the spring back again, watching it track down, guided by his hand. It spun a singular, central gear uselessly. Missing its siblings the cog would only whir and stir the air. Holding one of the toothy brass discs in the air he set to work mixing and matching, the painstaking puzzle crumbling each time he tried to draw the spring and stir the machine to life. Sun setting again, the chirping trinket long since quiet and his apprentices homeward bound after another day of work, he held his head in his hands. The manic swapping and brute-forcing had yielded nothing to show in success. Pounding the table with his hands he committed to a final attempt. Slipping each of the gears into a new place, maintaining those that clicked right and switching those that didn’t he gave it a last try. Pulling each of the springs to attention he pressed the latch (another discovery of his) to release them simultaneously. There was a catch, a halting to their rapid release. Caught syrupy and slow they slid imperceptibly down, gears climbing to life as they finally found purchase on their neighbors and ground together.   
“Yes, yes,” he gasped, life returning to his tired eyes. “Please! *Please*!” Begging, the machine ground out a gentle, clockwork hum as the robot’s inside climbed to activity again. Surprise draining from his face once again there was no sleepy stirring of her face, no gentle flick of her eyelashes or confused awakening. Sighing, he left the huddled workshop in defeat, extinguishing the last candles and abandoning the little machine to her silent, ticking slumber.


End file.
